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by afinecollector (orphan_account)



Series: Not Waving but Drowning [35]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Brotherly Love, Epilepsy, Fireside Chats, Honesty, JME, M/M, Mentions of Viclock, Mycroft loves his brother, Post-Ictal care, Pre-Canon, Rekindling, Season 3, Seizure, The Empty Hearse, The Empty House, The return of Sherlock holmes, ancestral home, chat, fraternal love, myoclonic jerks, open - Freeform, postictal care, talk, tonic-clonic seizure
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-27
Updated: 2016-08-27
Packaged: 2018-08-11 10:27:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7887655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/afinecollector
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Does John know?” </p><p>Mycroft turned to meet his eyes. “That you’re not dead? No. I rather thought that telling him that might be something you should do.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Back Home

“Don’t you understand how important it is that I know exactly where Sherlock Holmes is?” Mycroft shouted at the young woman who stood before him, his voice was firm and his tongue was sharp, but emotion crept through and kept his volume rising. “You have been around long enough to know that Sherlock is a special case; galavanting in the middle of nowhere without medical care, or somebody who understands his particular needs and requirements is life-threatening.” 

The young woman swallowed and she fidgeted her hands at her sides anxiously. “Sir, I came to tell you that we had a stable lock on his location.” She admitted, looking down at her feet. 

Mycroft jutted out his chin. “Where?” 

She looked up again and clasped her hands behind her back. “Serbia, Sir.” 

Mycroft inhaled deeply, a momentary wave of relief washing over him. He nodded his head once and waved his hand at her, dismissing her from his office. She lingered a moment before walking quickly away, her shoes clicking off of the polished floor of his work based office. Mycroft walked around to his desk and sank down into his chair. How he would find Sherlock was anyone’s guess, but twenty different possibilities raced through his mind at once and made his stomach lurch. He wasn’t sure what to expect, but he was sure of one thing - he was going to bring Sherlock home.

\- - - - - - - - - - - 

How his brother had remained upright in the last three years, Mycroft didn’t know and, if he was brutally honest, didn’t care to for fear he wouldn’t like the answers he was given. All he knew with certainty was that it would not last. The plane journey home to London was a long and arduous one. As Mycroft had suspected it might, the ability to relax had almost been a negative thing for his brother and, despite the commandeered jet being stocked with lorazepam, diazepam and AEDs to be restarted, and whatever else Mycroft had considered would be beneficial for Sherlock’s needs, Mycroft found himself sweating with exertion and concern as he nursed Sherlock’s head through two tonic-clonic seizures. 

“Ten minutes to landing, Sir.” Anthea said, standing at the division between the small kitchen and the aisle of the jet. She watched Mycroft, crouched on the floor with his left hand underneath Sherlock’s clammy head and the other smoothing his fingers through his matted hair, pushing it from his eyes. “Shall I ask for them to hold?” 

Mycroft looked up. He looked positively out of place to Anthea, with his blazer thrown aside and his shirt sleeves rolled. “No,” He said gently with a shake of his head. “Land, and soon. Make sure the car is ready to leave on the runway - I want to take him home immediately.” 

“Of course, Sir.” Anthea nodded her head, and backed away slowly, unable to take her eyes off of the vision before her. Sherlock’s body was slim and brittle looking, battered and bruised, and as it slowed down in its clonic contractures, Anthea was alarmed at just how fragile the man truly looked. Mycroft had been right, she considered, when he’d confided in her his fears for his brother. Anthea was even surprised the man was alive at all - she couldn’t imagine how he could have managed seizing like that when under such severe stress and unsavoury conditions. It made her spine tingle to consider he was lucky, in some respects, to have survived at all. 

“You are doing fine, Sherlock,” Mycroft spoke quietly, waiting for the inevitable vibrations and dips as the plane began to land. He placed his right hand on Sherlock’s hip, able to feel the muscles vibrating like a tremor beneath his fingers as he slowly settled into postictal fatigue and altered consciousness. “If you are able to hear me, Sherlock, you need to let me know that you are okay.” Sherlock’s old movement as proof of regaining consciousness didn’t appear, but with the settling of his breathing Mycroft felt certain that he was just taking longer to gather the strength to move. 

“Descending now, Sir.” Anthea informed him quietly, respectfully almost. “Perhaps you should take your seat.” 

Mycroft glanced her briefly before returning his eyes to his brother. “No, I should stay here with him. I trust the pilot.” 

“All the same, Sir, you’ll stiffen against the movements whereas your brother is barely conscious. The weather is wicked; I’d prefer it if you took a seat.” Anthea insisted. 

“No,” Mycroft said more sharply. “Instruct him to land, and to do it now. Can’t you see my brother needs…” He stopped, feeling a constriction in his throat that, if pushed, would rob him of his words. 

Anthea nodded her head, “Of course, Sir.”

\- - - - - - - - - - - 

Mycroft sipped from his tumbler, allowing the scotch to slip down his throat with velvety smoothness. He stared into the fireplace, watching the flames licking at the splintering wood. He’d tried to read a book, tried to respond to emails, he’d even tried to contact John Watson, but he could not apply himself to any of it and failed to get past just considering the idea at all. His head ached and as he nursed the glass in his right hand, he pushed his index and middle fingers of his left hand into his left temple, closing his eyes as he massaged the spot. His eyes opened again as the fire gave a particularly loud crackle, and he inhaled the smell of home that the burning created. He leaned to his side and placed the glass down on the table beside the fireside chair, it was this movement that gave him a clear view of the doorway into the lounge and his eyes fell on his brother, stood in the doorway, his body wrapped in the eiderdown that had been covering the bed in the first-floor guest room. 

“Sherlock,” He said quietly. The words seemed to act as an invitation and his brother stepped forwards, his bare feet silent on the hardwood floor. Holding the thin quilt around him, Sherlock sat in the chair to Mycroft’s right and folded his legs up beneath him, keeping his modesty with the cover. “I left paracetamol in your room, I assumed you might need them when you woke up.” Mycroft said, looking back into the fire. “You didn’t get the clean clothing I had pressed and left over the back of the vanity chair, I see.” 

Sherlock looked down at himself, his bendy body angled awkwardly beneath the light quilt. “I saw them, thank you.” Sherlock said quietly, and Mycroft winced at how pronounced his sloppy lisp was. He stared into the fire for a moment or two before he turned his head, resting it against the high back of the chair, and set his eyes on his brother. “Does John know?” 

Mycroft turned to meet his eyes. “That you’re not dead? No. I rather thought that telling him that might be something you should do.” He exhaled loudly. “But not yet; the only thing of importance at the moment is restoring your health.” 

“Sleep and medication, that's what I need, and my health will be fine, Mycroft.” Sherlock tutted lethargically. “That's all I need.” 

Mycroft rolled his eyes in the dim light and focused on Sherlock’s toes, twitching in a rhythm just out of the hem of his blanket. “Yes, well, let’s hope it helps quickly, then.” He drew his arm up, resting his elbow on the armrest of the chair, and fanned his fingers in the sight of his face, supporting his chin on his palm. “I know you saw… _him_ on your travels.” He watched Sherlock through a gap in his finger splay and calculated his response; it was somewhere between guilt and annoyance. “Was he happy to see you?” 

“Why should he not have been?” Sherlock asked him, altering his position in the chair so that his back was wedge between the corner of the armrest and the high back, folding himself into the seat at an angle. His sightline of Mycroft was more head-on this way. 

“Did you and Victor manage to spend time together?” Mycroft asked, lowering his hand. 

Sherlock’s brows twitched momentarily, knitting in the middle before he evened them out again. “Some,” he admitted. “When I wasn’t keeping myself out of sight.” 

“Until your _little holiday_ , I had been keeping him up to date on your wellbeing.” Mycroft told him, picking up his glass again. He didn’t drink from it, but nursed it in both hands. “I’m sure he told you?” 

Sherlock nodded his head where it rested on the back of the chair, “He mentioned.” 

“I promised him I would, Sherlock. I didn’t break that vow.” Mycroft stated bluntly. “He has expressed his pride in your sobriety on many occasions. I assume seeing it for himself was a welcomed treat, a confirmation he could trust beyond my words.” 

“Our conversations were emphasised more on other things,” Sherlock exhaled, and cast his eyes at the fire. 

Mycroft looked down at his glass, fingering the cut pattern with both hands. “You don’t intend on trying to maintain contact now that you’re home, I hope.” Sherlock flicked his eyes back to him just as Mycroft looked up to see if he would. “Because you know that you can’t, Sherlock. You know that you and Victor cannot have further contact, especially not now.” 

“I know,” Sherlock blinked slowly as he responded. 

“Good.” Mycroft reached around and placed the glass back onto the table. He rested back in the chair and looked everywhere he could in the room that wasn’t at his brother. When Sherlock cursed, though, he looked around. Sherlock’s right arm contracted like severe tremors against his trunk and his face was pulled into a pinched cringe. Mycroft hadn’t so much forgotten what it was to see Sherlock have waking seizures like this, but he had managed to somehow find catharsis in not witnessing it for three years. The myoclonic jerk lasted longer than Mycroft cared to remember they could and he was relieved when Sherlock tutted and flexed his arm, rolling his shoulder, and sat once again relaxed in the chair. 

“Have you informed our parents?” Sherlock asked, his voice sounding a little less sleepy than it had a moment ago and Mycroft knew he was tensed for more jerks he knew that Sherlock could sense coming. 

Mycroft nodded his head, “They’re aware you’re home, yes.” He replied quietly. “Mummy is keen to see you, of course.” 

Sherlock closed his eyes, “Not yet.” 

“I’ve warned them off for a few days, but you cannot avoid it indefinitely, Sherlock - they do love their little boy.” Mycroft smiled out of the corner of his mouth as he saw Sherlock widen his eyes and roll them at the very thought of the first meeting with them. “It’s getting late, Sherlock, and what little postictal sleep you got this evening will not suffice. You should go to bed; in the morning we can start your return.” He braced his hands on the arms of his chair and pushed himself to his feet. 

“That’s the conversation over?” Sherlock lifted his head and stared up at his brother. “You sincerely do not want to talk about anything else, there are no questions you have, you really don’t care to know?” 

“Know what, Sherlock?” Mycroft’s eyes bore back into him. 

Sherlock rolled his eyes and huffed a heavy sigh through his nose. Securing his blanket around him, he got to his feet with a slight dizzy waver to the change in position. He stood before Mycroft briefly before he turned away, heading out of the lounge. 

“Know what, Sherlock?” Mycroft repeated, a little more sharply. 

“Goodnight, Mycroft.” Sherlock called back to him deeply, disappearing around the corner of the door as he walked toward the stairs. 

Mycroft pushed his hands into his pockets and shook his head lightly, poking his tongue into a rear molar that needed to be filled. He had missed his brother, of course he had, and he was very glad to see him home - to see him alive - but he knew there were changes in his brother he was going to have to learn, new behaviours he was going to have to read and manage, and he knew that he was going to have to readjust to being his babysitter. A role he had missed, a role he longed to restart, and a role he resented, all at the same time.


End file.
